The Quest for the Ring
by Taltalnen
Summary: At the end of the 4th Age, in an Arda where the Ring survived, and the Blue wizards still roam the mortal lands, ancient evils have revived, and a fellowship forms against them, but how many souls will be lost to the Void? Not a MarySue, no canon heroes.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

No amount of furs could keep out the bitter cold, not even the thickest Warg-pelt. The icy wind whipped around her face, cutting her cheeks as she undid her scarf. This was the spot, no doubting it. None other alive could - or would- have dared this stunning feat, but she was not thinking of that. She was thinking of the cold, black water that would swallow her up, leaving her frozen. But this was the only way, and they must be recovered. She stood up, stretching to her full height, well over six feet tall, and thin even through the layers of leather and wolf hide that covered her. She looked around her in the desperate hope that the items she sought would have been encased in ice above the surface of the wintry sea, but to no avail- all she saw was ice and snow and frigid black water. There was nothing for it. She shed her cloaks of wolf fur, as well as all her heavy winter robes, until she wore only a tightly woven tunic and hose fitted close to her lean form. She shook her dark tresses from her hood and tied them back with a leather thong. With a quick prayer to Elbereth and to Ulmo who rules all waters, the Elf dove into the frozen waters of the Ice Bay of Forochel. Many long minutes passed. The cold wind howled over the snowswept plain, perhaps screaming a lament for things past. Save the whistling and moaning of the wind, all was silent in that last outpost of ice, that last reminder of the ancient Helcaraxë. Suddenly the Elf's head popped above the inky water, gasping for breath, and then she reached up with one arm, scrabbling for solid ice. She pulled herself out of the hole she had cut in the frozen surface and dragged herself onto the ice, still heaving and spluttering. She shuddered, and crept forward on hands and knees to the pile of discarded clothing and heaped it upon herself, then crawled into a shelter she had cut from the snow. She fell inside and sighed, leaning against the wall, then started a small fire with a pre-prepared stack of wood. The elf took out the thing that she had been clutching so tightly in her left hand and held it up to the fire. "Ai, vanima," she murmured, gazing at the smooth, glossy black surface of the heavy round object- the lost Palantír of Arvedui. She held it tightly as she lay by the fire; she had spent the past four hundred years of her life in the search of an untainted palantír- since the Ithil stone had been lost in the deeps of Mordor, the stone of Osgiliath in the Sea, and the stone of Amon Sûl broken in fire, and the stone of the Towers departed, the only Stones left were in Minas Tirith, or Minas Anor, its sometimes name. But the old Orthanc stone had a natural bent towards it, and the Anor-stone was filled with the image of Denethor II's demise. She had then set out for the coldest North, and after months of searching, had finally found it. The Elf gave herself over to the dark embrace of sleep as the wind howled outside.

When she awoke, she shuddered- it had gotten much colder in the night. But the Elf was not to be distracted- she set the palantír in her lap and looked deep inside it. As outside the shelter the wind raged and roared, inside her eyes were fixed, unmoving, on the dark glassy ball. Within were many images, each fluttering by, hardly resting for a minute- a vision came of Orc hordes again gathering, their numbers swelling. It faded out and another vision took its place, a scene of happiness. Somewhere within a warm dwelling of men, a girl was born, and the Elf smiled- she knew the Dúnedain who were with the baby. Some special significance must be attached to this child, she thought, but before she could surmise further, a wilful power appeared, a figure of darkness and cold filling all the palantír's sight as the wind came colder, blasting into the shelter. The Elf gasped at the sight of the cold figure. "Aran-ulaírë," she whispered, and with effort redirected the gaze of the ball towards the dark East, fearing what might come into view. First there came a glimpse of a shining city built into a mountain, glowing with the light of the Sun. "Minas Anor," she murmured. The eye of the seeing-stone moved further and further East, and she caught a glimpse of many-faceted eyes, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a scene of wind blowing ashes about. But it was neither the wind nor the ashes that caused the Elf's stomach to turn and her blood to run cold. It was not even the half-completed tower, made all of black stone and blackened iron and steel, towering high above the grey and ashen plain, crawling with Orcs. It was the glimpse of a figure, dark and tall, moving about the reconstructed remains of the tower, a figure with an Eye, slitted and orange like a cat's. That brief glimpse left the Elf shaken, and she dropped the Palantír to the ice, where the flaming image of an Eye continued to burn. Outside the wind howled with fell voices as Anor Ithil Gil-galad witnessed the return of Sauron to Middle-earth.


	2. Beginnings

Author's notes- I haven't updated in a long time- and this is only the most rudimentary form of a second chapter. I know it sounds somewhat Sue-ish, but that's because I can't write beginnings. I've got over a hundred pages of the middle, but I can't really post that yet. Still looking for a beta, so Tolkien fanatics, please reply …

Disclaimer- the world, languages, themes, and history are Tolkien's, but most of the characters are mine.

It was a cold spring day in the town of Bree. Dark grey clouds covered up the weak April sunshine, the rain pounding down like a thousand fists upon the roofs of the town. The region's best inn, the Prancing Pony, was busier than a beehive, full of travellers desperate to get out of the torrential downpour, to get somewhere warm by a fire where they could have a drink or two. The old inn still had the best beer on the entire Bree-hill, though there were many larger inns, some in better repair; without creaky stairs, loose shingles, and many of the other things that characterise a very old building. But no other inn was as good as the Prancing Pony, men agreed.

That soggy April day, the inn was full of all sorts of folk: there were a few Dwarves moving from their mines in the East to their western settlements, a merchant caravan from down south making its way through the Northlands, and many other travellers and folk of Bree, there for the news, or for the beer. The proprietors of the inn, the Butterburs, were hurrying this way and that, scurrying to and fro, trying to help ten people at a time. The timbers of the old inn groaned as the rain beat down ever harder. By the time people had stopped arriving, and were all settled in, it was evening. Many of the guests were in the common room, in addition to the landlord's daughter, Estelle. She sat down on a bench near the wall, exhausted from all the scurrying around she had done while helping her parents, when a noise at the door got her off her feet. She edged past dripping patrons till she opened the door and looked out into the wet night, not seeing what could have made the noise. When she shut the thick wooden door and turned around, there was a dark hooded figure behind her, tall and menacing.

"Aaah!" she shrieked.

The stranger's hood was removed, and Estelle calmed down.

"Oh! You again! You do seem to pop up like that! Whyever do you do that for?"

"Do what?" said Peregrine, the tall woman, shaking her head like a dog; droplets of rain flying off her dark hair.

Peregrine was one of the people that the Bree-landers called rangers- the wanderers who seldom showed themselves in civilised places, often about on mysterious business, a close people, untrusting and wary. Of all the rangers that passed through, this one was The Ranger, because she was the one who came by most often, and seemed to hold the greatest secrets and knowledge. But the only one whom she seemed to want to divulge any of those mysteries to was the innkeeper's young daughter.

"Will you be wanting a room, or just the fireside tonight?"

Peregrine smiled and took the girl's hand.


End file.
